When Artemis's confused face shimmers into view, the thin line of Darya's mouth relaxes. Her eyes crinkle in amusement as Artemis's bewildered questions pour through the hazy Iris connection, and she holds up a finger to slow the rapid-fire interrogation.
"Hello. You don't have to do anything, per se. This is an Iris message. It's the main mode of communication for the demigods at Camp Half-Blood," she explains, speech stilted. Almost as if she's reading an email out-loud, she continues, "I saw your note. Would you care for company? Roaming monsters pose a serious threat to individual demigods, and considering the large group in which we are traveling, we're bound to attract a number of enemies." She pauses as a small tremor rumbles almost imperceptibly under her still-bare feet. Its origin is nearby, but it doesn't seem natural. Scooping up the fountain, she pads quietly back toward the source.
"Speak softly, sister. There may be a danger here." She catches a glimpse of Devon kneeling on the ground and watches him silently for a tick before she backs just out of sight and hearing. "Apologies. It was simply the son of the deep." Her attention returns to Artemis's misty reflection.
Although Reagan had never visited Sydney, winding their way through the streets of the unfamiliar city is like meeting (another) half-sibling. No matter where they go, there's an undercurrent of familiarity that leads their feet down each path, a dance that their body can't forget. Without seeming to notice J.R. tailing them, they let curiosity be their guide, getting distracted by interesting-looking places and people.
The latter turns out to be the traveler that had driven him onto the streets in the first place. A head of white hair is unusual, especially paired with the heavy winter gear that hangs off his form awkwardly.
That has to be uncomfortable.
Reagan jogs lightly towards the boy as he peruses souvenirs. Really, the kid couldn't look more like a tourist if he tried.
"Hey! Where've you been, man? We've been looking for you," they call, slinging an arm over his shoulder casually. Praying the kid will play along, they turn to the shopkeeper.
"'Scuse us, sir! Sorry to take your time," they say, grimacing apologetically. They pointedly turn the other kid away, leading him to a busier street. As soon as the two are out of earshot, they drop their arm and back up, giving the other space.
"Sorry, but he was scamming you. They jack up prices for foreigners. Also, I think I can point you in the right direction, if you're looking for something specifically." They smile widely, gesturing in the direction of the nome.